


When the Heart Stops Beating

by mochiandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cameos from Harry Watson and Mycroft Holmes., Coma, Disregard how the human body actually works., Hearts, Hope it's pretty not gaudy., Light Angst, Little bit of flowery language., M/M, Magical Realism, Mentions of alcoholism and cheating, Reichenbach Falls, but not between our two favourite boys.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:32:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochiandtea/pseuds/mochiandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Sherlock fell was the day John's heart stopped beating.</p>
<p>Quite literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Heart Stops Beating

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry in advance for grammar and tense mistakes. I have no beta.

The day Sherlock fell was the day John's heart stopped beating.

Quite literally.

* * *

It wasn't unknown, Still Heart Syndrome. It was well documented, even in Victorian times.

The grossly misused term, 'heartbreak,' originated from this syndrome. An event, or a culmination of events, that sent a person into a spiral of depression.  A growing detachment to the world, an absence of feeling, weighing heavily on the heart. Its palpitations lagged under the weight, became feeble,  slowing in beats per minute until finally, one day, it stopped.

Stopped beating.

A heart that had stopped working, like a broken machine–a broken heart.

Sometimes, it was a gradual process, steeped over years, or months. In some cases, even weeks. There would be frequent trips to heart specialists , to make sure their body could continue to function despite being used to a beating heart, and therapists, to help SHS sufferers adjust to living with a still heart once more.

Help sufferers adjust from an adult's heart, one that had known love and lost it, to a child's heart, still untouched by romantic love.

Except, a child's heart does not beat because it has not been stirred. An adult suffering SHS has no romantic love left to feel.

 

* * *

 

Tucked away in England's lush, green countryside was a small manor house. (Quite possibly the Holmes ancestral manor, if said outside Mycroft's jurisdiction. Somehow.) Old brick and white framed windows, leafy vines climbing persistently up the walls. A winding, sandy driveway, gardens to either side and at the back artfully landscaped with rose bushes, tulips and all manner of flowers, both local and exotic.

In Spring the scent was light and sweet, reminiscent of wildflowers and meadows, honey at the tip of the tongue. In Summer, it was heavy and almost cloying, stuck at the back of the throat.

Placed in a tastefully decorated guest room of the manor, windows opened each morning of Spring and Summer, the scent sometimes drifted in on a breeze to reach the occupant. The occupant never sniffed, never sighed in pleasure or displeasure; never reacted to a scent. At least, not physically. To a man deep in sleep, with no heartbeat for internal stimuli, no senses but the nose for external stimuli, scent was the only fodder he had to colour his dreams from outside.

This man dreamed for three years.

Dreamed of a young child, imagination run wild. A teen, flushed with first 'love'. An invalidated soldier turned friend of a crime-solving sleuth, so blind to his own heart.

A man, who sought back the world that collapsed under his feet.

 

* * *

 

Children were born without a heartbeat. Dragged into the world flailing and screaming, lungs in perfect working order during an uncomplicated birth. Weighed, measured and tagged, laid against their mother's breast, or their father's chest, to listen to the beat of their heart.

Maybe this was where the longing came from. A human's natural need to kick start their heart later in life. Find someone to love, let the heart start beating, and steadily plod through the rest of their lives. Maybe it developed as  a baby. Maybe it was human instinct, like animal instinct. Just a drive, to find a person to bring their heart to life.

 

* * *

 

It was the sad reality that just because a person found love, it didn't mean it lasted.

 

* * *

 

John dreamed of when he was heartbeat-less.

Just a boy, being chased by their elder sister around in the backyard of their middle-class home. Harry hadn't tasted alcohol yet. Still bright and smiling and _close_ , rolling her eyes spastically and careening wildly towards him in an imitation of the zombie from the latest horror movie on TV.

Eight years older, already early teens, but this was her younger brother, a brat and an annoyance and still her cute little brother to bully and play with. She caught him, noogied him, and made a movie-like attempt at eating his brains. John struggled and yelled, complained, eventually gave up and lay his head on her chest, suddenly tired. He listened contently to the beat of her heart. It had only started a few weeks before this moment. He had asked back then, but Harry wouldn't answer, and threatened to hide the TV remote if he ever said anything to anyone about it.

So he never said anything, and never asked who made her heart start beating, just like in those girly fairytales. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, hearts moved by the kiss of their Prince Charming.

That a girl was the reason for Harry's beating heart never came out until a year later, when their Ma caught Harry snogging a girl on the sofa. It wasn't what upset her. It was that Harry had been drunk off her face doing it. After Ma caught Harry snogging a different girl at the supermarkets just the week before.

It was many, many girlfriends and many drunken cheating episodes before Harry settled down with Clara.

Years after their marriage, it was alcohol that ended their relationship, and eventually stopped Harry's heart.

 

* * *

 

There was one thing Dr Ella Thompson got right about Dr John Watson.

"I'm concerned John. The adrenaline rush your flatmate provides aside, he takes up most of your time. You're with him on cases, you live with him, he often texts you at work though you don't reply often, he interrupts any attempt at you having a social life outside his sphere. Sherlock has become the centrepiece of your life."

John had agreed with her. He also asked for her not to arrange any more appointments. There was no point.

He was happier and more stable (despite his chaotic lifestyle) than he had been since he was shot. Dr Thompson could not argue with that.

 

* * *

 

Before the manor and its fragrant gardens, there was a hospital. An extremely exclusive, highly secured facility. The corridor floors gleamed spotless white, the rooms were done in shades of soothing blue. Windows faced lovely gardens, nowhere near as nice as the manor's, but the fact that this hospital had a garden at all spoke of its wealth.

In one particular room lay a man. Ashy grey-blonde hair, with some lingering platinum strands–a man who had once spent a lot of time under the sun. Tan lines at the wrist. Face soft and relaxed, lacking the lines furrowed their during waking hours.

Curled in a chair next to this man was another man. Much taller, with dark, curly hair instead of straight and blonde, extremely pale skinned, face almost unlined. Eyes open, unlike the first man. This one was awake, eyes fixed on the blonde man. It  had been fixed on the blonde man for awhile.

A pale, violin-callused hand lay on the blonde man's chest. It felt the man inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

No heartbeat.

The pale hand moved to its owner's chest. _Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump–_

The hand clenched.

It was all _wrong_.

 

* * *

 

John was fifteen when his heart started beating. Ironically, the same age as Harry.

His third girlfriend had been the one. Mary Morstan. Hiding behind the bleachers of their high school oval, snogging heavily, John had pulled back for some air and looked her over. Observed her mussed hair, dazed eyes and swollen lips. Her school shirt, first three buttons unbuttoned, revealing hickeys near her collarbone. Hickeys _he_ made.

He felt proud. He felt horny. He felt possessive. But most of all, looking at the mischief replacing the dazed look in her eyes, he felt affection. That she could look so pleasure-dazed, then so bold. That she would let him do that to her. That she wanted more.

A thump sounded from the inside of his chest. He froze, startled. Another thump. Then another.

_Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump–_

Mary placed a hand on his chest and smiled wryly. She got her heartbeat before they started dating. John never asked who.

"Something to celebrate," she smirked up at him, and pulled him close for another good snog.

They did. He made her very, very happy. A teenager's version of romantic happiness anyway.

Two months after, they broke up mutually. It was awkward for a few months, then a new school year started, the classes were mixed around, and he barely saw her again. He was a little busy with another girlfriend, one who's heart hadn't started beating yet, and was both parts in awe and jealous of this. They hadn't lasted long.

Years later, watching his curly haired insane flatmate pace after being told of Irene's death, John would ponder whether it was romantic love, whatever that mutual emotion was that everyone seemed to experience before thirty, that started a heartbeat. Or whether it was the realisation of that potential, of feeling so much for a person and knowing _this could be it_ , that kick-started the heart.

Sherlock kept denying it. Displayed interest in Irene, if not for her appearance, than her ability to keep up with him intellectually. Played her game. Tried and failed to hide his care for her. John wasn't as smart as him, but he was much better with people, he saw it. Maybe it could have been love, or as close to the emotion as Sherlock would allow. Except he denied and denied, threw labels like sociopath around, clung to descriptions like _machine_ even when it was retracted.

His heart was still, as still as when John had done his first medical check up on him, in the early days of their flat share.

Maybe John had it wrong. Maybe it was just intellectual interest, as Sherlock declared. Or friendship. At least, on is end. Certainly not from Irene's. John couldn't help but think though, that if Sherlock had been more open, if not accepting, of sentiment...

Well. It was a cruel thing to think, but maybe he was better off not.

(John ignored the fact his guilt stemmed from being rude, rather than being cruel.

His heart beat steadily in his chest.)

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, SHS was a gradual process, steeped over years, or months. In some cases, even weeks. Time to adjust, both physically and mentally.

For a heart to just stop, in a body adapted to its function for over a decade, was equivalent to a heart attack. Was, actually, a type of heart attack. With all the same treatments, recoveries and complications as the more common types.

 

* * *

 

For weeks after his heart abruptly stopped, John lay comatose in a hospital. Friends visited: Mrs Hudson, weepy at losing one and now possibly another of her boys; Greg, sad and tired but with a stoic front; Molly, panicked and guilty. Co-workers, old army mates. His sister Harry.

And, snuck in after visiting hours, during the nights, a tall shadow with curly hair.

"I never meant for this, John. I didn't–didn't know, didn't see! How could I not see?!"

The shadow reached out a hand. Paused, and dropped it instead onto its own chest, where an organ which had lain unused for over thirty years thumped out a newly discovered rhythm.

_Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump–_

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock."

"Get out."

"Sherlock, he'll be well taken care of."

"I know! It's called privacy, though I'm sure you've never heard of it."

"Be quick, then. You've overstayed as it is, and Moriarty's web is still alive. They won't be fooled much longer. You've done too much to let that happen, brother-mine."

"Get out, Mycroft!"

The door swung shut. A firm click sounded. Silence, than a soft rustle. A shadow, perched on the bed, head bent close to the man laying supine.

"John. Scientific studies are inconclusive over whether a comatose subject can register external stimuli, though there is some sensationalist rubbish written by others suggesting otherwise. That not much of it belongs in an academic journal speaks for itself. But John, if you can, listen. I have to go. Just for awhile. To make sure Moriarty's web can't touch you, or Mrs Hudson, or Lestrade. Understand–"

The voice broke off. Cleared its throat. Continued.

"It was meant to be a magic trick, John. Just a magic trick. Not real. So, when I come back, you will be awake. This can be your magic trick. And you can punch me, I won't fight back for that."

The shadow took the sleeping man's left hand, and pressed it over its chest.

_Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump._

"See what you've done to me? Sentiment! A disgusting chemical defect, I can't get rid of it now. You're _necessary_ , John. Take responsibility when I get back. You're a _good_ man. You will."

The shadow held the hand to its chest for a beat longer. Then gently lowered it back to the bed.

"Goodbye, John...I'll be back soon."

The door opened, then closed. A click.

 

* * *

 

There might have been an _I love you_ in the midst of that monologue.

If there was, it wasn't said in words.

 

* * *

 

The day Sherlock fell was the day John's heart stopped beating.

It was also the day Sherlock's heart started beating.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism always appreciated. Thanks for reading.


End file.
